


Close To Some Surrender

by regulsh



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Camping, Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: Richard could hear the muffled windy hiss and roar of car tyres on wet asphalt, coming and going in waves.Taron scratched his neck. “I don't like. Being alone.”Richard had nothing to say to that. He sure couldn't say the same, he’d be fine fucking off somewhere until someone came to call.Which Taron had.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	Close To Some Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> turns out i only need the barest shred of inspiration. title from the new fleet foxes album. this is, whoo, so fictional, in case you needed reminding

Balmy nights after rain in Scotland always made Richard sleepy, and muddled his brain, and Taron sitting across from him cheerfully asking, “How’ve you been?” certainly did not help matters.

Taron chatted away mildly, _been out with the boys and the van,_ creased and tan and smiling, _thought I’d say hello_. He had texted Richard out of the blue and said _I’m in your parts if you are_ and _let’s get a drink,_ made it just easy enough for Richard to say yes and so they were sat on a patio with cold pints in the muggy evening air, and Richard was thoroughly confused.

Richard had worn a jumper and didn’t know why, feeling too pale and itchy sitting there. He tugged on its arm. The season was changing, it was in the air; tricksy flashes of sunny afternoons and then the snap of cold as soon as the sun set.

“You seem good,” Taron said, cocking his head. “I’ve been rambling. What’ve you been up to?”

Richard looked at him, and found himself unable to call up any sort of meaningful update on his life. Didn’t know where to even begin with anything that mattered. Realised, with a little flush of shame, how very divorced from the world he felt.

“Seen anyone lately?” Taron prompted him.

“I've seen. Some people.” Richard shifted in his chair. “Lily was here for a bit.”

“When was that?”

“Just—few weeks ago,” Richard said after a long pause, poorly covering the fact that he couldn’t really remember.

“Has nothing changed for you?” Taron gave him a good-natured smile, apparently humored by it. By him. “Good ol’ Rich.”

Richard held his body in place, carefully. As if stillness would make the words glance off him rather than cut any deeper.

The truth was—

Richard had a hazy, lovely time in LA, but even as it was happening it felt like the clock was running out, just pretending. Eventually he headed home and let his relationship fade and fizzle away, and didn’t even know why as he did so. It felt just beyond his fingertips, frustratingly distant, so no great loss or surprise when it slipped away. Found it so difficult to concentrate on anything that he just allowed the comforts and rhythms of home to fold their arms around him, sliding back into familiar things. Needed some sort of rest, and reality. Only then, under Taron’s expectant gaze, knew that it looked—and felt—like giving up.

A little stunned, then feeling combative, Richard said to Taron, “You tell me.” 

Taron seemed to assess his face then, calmly. Maybe thinking back to when they were nothing but sweet to each other, back when they would talk late into the night on the couch, always in each other’s pockets. Back when one night they got just a little too high and kissed soft and hungry for a brief spell, the moon shining huge through the window, then went back to talking as easy as anything, Richard’s head tipped back on the cushion, his lips buzzing.

“Come with me,” Taron told him. “Camping.”

“...Your friends,” Richard said, finally.

“They're hanging around here for a bit. Jack's got an aunt in town, I think.” Taron sighed gustily, looked around. “I don’t... I don’t feel like hanging around.”

“I don't have time for this,” Richard said. Unthinking, rude out of sheer surprise.

Taron wrinkled his nose, genuinely confused. “What are you doing?”

“I don't have anything. Stuff,” Richard tried. Which was true; one battered pair of boots in the back of his closet, maybe.

“I've got gear. We’ll get stuff,” Taron said. “Come with me.”

Richard could hear the muffled windy hiss and roar of car tyres on wet asphalt, coming and going in waves.

Taron scratched his neck. “I don't like. Being alone.”

Richard had nothing to say to that. He sure couldn't say the same, he’d be fine fucking off somewhere until someone came to call.

Which Taron had.

“Walk Speyside. Easy stuff. A few days, not the whole thing. Real wild camping. You’ll love it.”

Taron’s face was open, and certain. It tempted Richard. That maybe he could feel the same way.

-

They drove to Aviemore, Taron drumming on the steering wheel with intensity, both of them making sort of stiff conversation. Richard felt his stomach dropping further and further as they left the city, their surroundings becoming more wild and weedy, crowded houses and buildings shrinking back and open expanses yawning in to take their place.

Taron had loaned him a sleeping bag and woollen socks and brought a tent for the both of them and seemed to have the whole affair well in hand, all things considered. It gave Richard enough confidence to follow him as they set out, heading east. From the mountain to the sea, the way that water flowed. Following the river.

The trail was—underwhelming, to Richard. A neat flat footpath, smaller than he thought it would be. Cyclists in crinkling fluorescent jackets whizzed by them, kicking up dirt, large ambling groups that they let pass by as they shouted to each other, crunching energy bars. Hardly the remote, wild retreat he envisioned. It felt more pedestrian, felt like work, as they settled into a quiet pace, Taron only occasionally commenting to him or reading the trail map.

They followed along the railway, closed in by yellowing birches and pines and coming upon sprays of bushes with tiny wild raspberries, the last fruits of summer. Taron grabbed fistfuls while Richard hung back, unsure, sipping from his water bottle. “If we have to airlift you out of here,” Richard warned, and Taron only grinned widely, lips flushed red.

Nature emboldened Taron, made him wide eyed and vivid, taking the lead with his sure step. It suited him. Richard felt only weary, subsumed by it, especially when they suddenly burst from the shelter of the woods and spilled out onto open heathland, the only thing in front of them as far as the eye could see. It made him feel miniscule. Unprotected. Which was maybe part of the appeal, as he thought about it; the feeling of obliteration, lost in the indifferent countryside. They passed skeletons of fences with slats knocked out, stone pile bridges overgrown with brush; relics of past lives, worn down, melding back into the land.

By the end of the day they made it nearly to Grantown and found a little cradle of rock to set about setting up camp, Richard still feeling like he was playacting at the whole thing. Taron came huffing out of the woods with an armload of tinder and firewood, dumped it on the ground and went to erect the tent with some difficulty. “Roughing it,” Richard said, teasing.

“I've learnt,” Taron stubbornly answered, then yelped as a rod sprung up and near hit him in the face.

As the sun set Richard made a shoddy circle of stones and sticks and they got a campfire going, miraculously, and ate tinned tuna spread on crackers as they dried their socks. They were wet from the dewy grass, and from sweat, their entire bodies misted damp. 

Richard wiped his wet cellphone on his wet jacket like he expected anything to happen, peered at it. “No service.”

“In most parts, yeah. Can’t be reached even if you try,” Taron said somewhat too cheerily, poking at the fire.

They wriggled into the small tent and Taron bounded out for a piss, leaving Richard alone for a moment. His legs felt warm and well-used from the long day of walking, toes tingling, his body pleasantly aching even as his mind raced. A brief, absurd flare of anxiety, that he was out here utterly alone with nothing else but his own thoughts and a borrowed bag of supplies and a man he hadn’t seen for months as company. 

Too late now for such thoughts. All there was for it at this point was to put one foot in front of the other, over and over, until it was done. Nothing else to do but move forward.

No sooner did Richard conclude this than he heard the _rrrr_ of Taron unzipping the tent, and he hastily tried to pretend like he wasn’t just wondering what the fuck he had gotten himself into.

-

They woke the next morning crammed in side to side, swaddled in their own sleeping bags. One bloody day on the trail and Richard was unbelievably sore, his muscles even at his best only accustomed to slick training facilities, rubber sheathed kettlebells, not tramping over hill and fucking dale. Odd things, his ankles and calves and the seam of muscle down his back from carrying his pack, all felt hot and used.

So they went slow, taking it easy, stopping for the view or for water as it suited them. Richard felt badly to be slowing them down, grimacing and flexing his feet when he could, even as Taron, falling back to stand with him, absolutely insisted it was fine. They rounded a bend to see a spectacular view of the Cairngorms rising, the Spey sweeping in near the trail. Taron took out a knife, and an orange, and cut slices that he shared with Richard while they rested. They watched the sheep and cows that dotted the dappled faraway hills, endless swells and shadows rolling out, weak sun streaming between the heavy gray clouds. 

“Wow,” Taron kept murmuring, irrepressibly candid.

He took a lung-deep inhale, the barrel of his chest expanding. “I always feel like this—” Taron gestured at the landscape, let out a whoosh of breath. A breeze graciously ruffled the both of them. “Like I should be changing, I think. Like I should feel it.”

“Maybe you just can’t,” Richard said, a little breathless. 

A flock of sheep disappeared over the brow of a hill, no longer to be seen.

Taron said faintly, a soft note of alarm in his voice, “Can’t?” 

“Can't feel it,” Richard said.

Taron relaxed next to him, falling silent again. The swollen clouds above them finally made good on their promise, and a raindrop plipped from the sky to land on Richard’s nose.

Taron wiped at his face too, looked up. “We've got to get going.”

-

The rest of the day, generally speaking, went to absolute shit.

They had jackets but otherwise no defense against the rain, and Richard’s suggestion of finding somewhere to wait it out was shot down by Taron insisting, “No, we should push through to make it by Ballindalloch,” but Richard’s calves were properly hurting by that point and the rain coming and going blurred his vision, wet his face and trickled inside his clothes, and they moved no faster for it. 

The path had too many squeeze gates, one after the other, their cold hands slipping on frigid metal, and some barbed wire tore Taron’s jacket as he struggled through one. They pressed on, heads down, as Taron kept consulting his battered map before admitting he had missed a thistle waymark somewhere back. They had taken something of an accidental detour, nowhere near where they needed to be.

“Fantastic,” Richard said, voice clipped.

Eventually, exhausted and without other options, they decided to make camp right where they were, hunker down. They retreated under the trees and Taron unfurled the tent, clenching and unclenching his hands to get them to work.

“Couldn’t we— couldn’t you do something else?” Richard asked, exhausted.

“Fuck off,” Taron groused, rounding on him. “God forbid _you_ try, you know. You could help.”

The cacophony of rain on the leaves drowned out Richard’s hissed exhale. He didn’t know why they weren’t bothering with hotels or bothies along the way, why they were clinging to this fantasy of wilderness, and, with a violent surge of anger, why the fuck he came at all. Why he let himself go along with it, no argument.

“Listen, if you’re so fucking intent on it, have at it,” Richard spit. “But you can leave me the fuck out of it, alright?”

It was pissing down and freezing cold but Richard trudged away and walked in mad circles nearby, couldn’t stand to be near him at all. His legs complained soon enough to the point that he sank down to sit under a tree, the ground wet on his already soaked trousers, aching and seething. His hood blocked his vision, narrowed down to the small tunnel of grass and mud before him. 

It felt perversely good, indulgent, to fume as he did. It made Richard sharp, thinking, yanking his phone out of his pocket. He could call a car, no bloody idea where they were but couldn’t be too far from civilization, really, trudge his way somehow to the A95 and throw his card at them and sleep in the backseat, home before morning.

The harsh light of the screen in the night made him squint, lifting it to his face. No service. 

He almost, almost yelled. How good would it feel, to send huddled birds flying and creatures skittering away from him, shouting into the void. But at once the mental picture of himself poked an abrupt hole in the fantasy, his fury leaking away: he was sat under a tree, alone in the pouring rain, pouting like a child. Savoring his own misery. 

It was unimaginable that he and Taron once had glossy, heady nights together, dressing sharp in gifted finery, borne on the wave of studio cash and success. A true lifetime before they went tramping around in the muck, soaking themselves wet and getting furious at each other. For no reason. 

His muscles, tight from anger and the cold, loosened. His head hung.

It was nearly pitch black when Richard made his way back, a tiny lantern illuminating their tent from within like a glowing beacon in the dark wood. He tugged open the zip and stepped inside, closing it up quickly to shut out the rain, and turned round to see Taron curled in a ball in his sleeping bag, sitting upright. He had left him alone for— god, he didn’t know how long he was gone. “F-fucking frigid,” Taron said through chattering teeth.

Richard was shivering too. They were too sorry, the both of them. 

He looked at Taron, his pale worried face in the dark lit by the lantern. “Budge over then.”

Richard shucked off his soaked clothes with a wet _slap_ in the corner, down to his semi-dry underthings, and shoved his way into Taron’s sleeping bag without a second thought. People did this; survivalists, and such. He’d seen documentaries.

Taron shifted to make room awkwardly as Richard rubbed his arms; their freezing, clammy skin stuck together. Taron felt rigid and cold under his hands but eventually the friction built up, heated them both, allowed them to soften a bit.

“The socks you lent me are awful,” Richard absently explained. “I never could have stayed warm enough on my own.”

“Can you not insult m-me if you’re gonna spoon me all night,” Taron muttered.

“Won’t. Your feet are too cold.”

“Hush, dear,” Taron said, and just like that Richard snorted, and Taron laughed at making him laugh, and everything was fixed. Better than fixed, because Richard could feel his toes again, the gooseflesh finally subsiding on them both. Taron didn’t apologise, he didn’t apologise; he only worked his open palm over Taron’s shoulder and arm, while Taron cupped hot breath in his palms and pressed them to Richard’s icy cheeks.

Richard did his best to avoid spooning him. They settled into an uncomfortable sort of comfort with the awkward, polite alignment of their bodies tucked together, their stiffness from the cold. Bit by bit they thawed, and managed to relax, and the black exhausted relief of sleep found them both.

-

The drumming rain passed in the night and left them with a cool, calm morning. Almost unnaturally still and silent, save for a lone singing thrush that woke Richard with its looping song. He was semi-conscious long before he opened his eyes, feeling pleasantly flushed, humid inside the bedding, his body and eyelids so heavy. Awareness trickled down each of his limbs too slowly, and it took long seconds to realise his efforts for respectability were for naught because he was definitely spooning Taron, curled around him, their limbs insinuated around one another, seeking and finding a measure of warmth and comfort in each other away from the cool forest air. Except the heavy, pleasant feeling he was chasing was certainly because he was undeniably, unavoidably hard against the small of Taron’s back.

Heat and mild panic flashed through him, even as the subtle shifts he made to edge away from Taron only pressed his pelvis against him more. The hollow of his own hip, the firm curve of Taron's arse, so well fitted together; their sore, shifting limbs, bound in the confines of the sleeping bag. 

Richard’s arm was wound possessively around Taron’s chest, _jesus_ , and he realised there was no way he was going to escape this alive because even his aborted movements had woken Taron a little, who stretched and writhed gently in his hold. His long, strong back arching in the cradle of his arms. Richard gritted his teeth at the movement against him, held still, held his breath.

Taron gave a little _hmph_ of alertness and Richard rolled away, yanked his arm back roughly. His mouth was dry. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“S’alright,” Taron said with a slow yawn and a flap of his hand. Enviably casual about having his friend’s hard dick mashed up against him. “Happens.”

“Yeah,” Richard said hoarsely.

Taron yawned again. Smacked his lips. “Thing is, it’s so cold out I don’t wanna get out.”

“Can you put me out of my misery, please,” Richard moaned, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“That’s not the worst way I’ve been asked for a handy.”

Richard choked on a breath. “Not what I meant.”

Cheek aside, Taron was meek and quiet as he clambered out of the sleeping bag reluctantly, and said as he jerked his thumb outside, “I’ll— erm—” and stepped out of the tent before Richard, catching on a beat too late, called after him weakly, “I’m not go—” before he buried his face in his hands with a groan.

-

Their arrival into town was met with the unanimous decision to treat themselves to an actual stay somewhere after the disaster of last night. The first B&B they went to was full up, and so was the second, and in the third a shared room was all that was available, which they took with relief and only the slightest, smallest pause between them. Worse came when they swung open the door and took in the tiny floral room that they could cross in four steps, the vaulted ceiling closing them in, the small cottage window out to the street, and the lone bed facing it. 

“Ah, fuck,” Taron said carelessly, slinging his bag into the corner. Turned to face Richard. “Hungry?”

They tucked into a hearty pub meal next door, Taron inhaling a steak and ale pie while they talked, something shaken loose in both of them. They talked about their families; stories from Richard’s mum, Taron updating Richard on his sisters, warm and glowing like a fire when he did so. Richard ate sizzling hot chips and drank a cold beer and couldn’t stop smiling, the most delicious meal he’d ever had, even the smallest animal comforts after only a few days camping seeming like absurd luxuries. 

“What’re you smiling about,” Taron asked him, laughing.

“Can’t I just be happy?” Richard said, draining the last of his beer.

Taron hummed, pleased. “That’d be good.”

-

“Why are you doing this?”

“Thought it'd be a good idea. Get to see the boys. Wanted to tackle something.”

Richard had gone to the corner shop and bought a pack of cigs at a ridiculous hiked up price and they prised open the bedroom window and sat on the sill and smoked out of it, kept the lamp in the room off so the proprietor couldn't see up and scold them. Barely any light to see by, only their cigarette tips glowing red when either of them took a drag. The lamppost beneath them. The moon.

Richard let out a breath, slowly, stared at the cobbles below. Solid ground. “Why’d you ask me to come?”

“I wanted to. It’s good to see you,” Taron said mildly. Smiled, before letting it drop. “And I wanted to see people.”

The silence hung around too long, so long that Richard was surprised in more than one way when Taron said, “I'm single again.”

Neither of them said anything again for a long time. 

After a while Richard could sense that Taron had turned to face him. He knew Taron wouldn't ask outright, bless him.

It took Richard a moment, dredged up from his chest where he'd buried it deep. "I’ve been alone. For. A bit.”

Taron nodded slowly, turned away again. “It’s been good to just... go. The boys have been good to me.”

“And you?”

“Hmm?” Taron said.

“Have you been good to you?”

“...S’pose,” Taron said.

Richard took a short drag, looked at him, finally. “Well, now you’ve gone to using me to distract you, eh?” He was half joking, but he saw Taron’s face fall just a bit. 

“I’d never use you.”

Richard stayed his hand from reaching out to touch him. To— to let him know, that he knew.

“Alright,” he instead agreed. 

“And you don’t distract me,” Taron said, in a quiet, distracted voice.

-

They flicked their butts to the street below, cleaned themselves up before retiring to their one little bed. Richard went to the washroom after Taron, took a scalding shower and wiped the steam from the mirror with no small amount of trepidation. It was strange that he hadn't looked in a mirror for two or three days now. He thought himself about as vain as any human, or actor, but that still seemed like a long time to him. Blinked uncomfortably at his reflection, tried to neaten his hair, thought about a shave, and then gave the whole thing up.

It was maybe an hour of them lying in the dark before Richard heard Taron get up, trying to be quiet. Richard feigned sleep on his side, listening to Taron slip out of the room. Once he'd gone Richard got up too, and peeked out the window to see Taron on the street, retreating from the glow of the lamppost, hands stuck in pockets and shoes shoved on feet, just walking. Richard watched until he couldn’t see him anymore, faded into the darkness, then went back to bed and shut his eyes in vain.

A hazy length of time passed before Taron returned, Richard roused by the thump of his shoes on the old carpet, him creaking into bed again, shuffling the sheets. Before he could think too much about it, Richard rolled over and wrapped a lone gentle arm around Taron.

Taron, after a beat, caught his arm, clung to it, shuffled against Richard more fully. Richard snuffled the tip of his nose in by his neck, his ear, heard his little shuddered breaths. Already dreamy and half-lucid, Richard fell back asleep, and didn’t know if Taron followed.

In the thin light of the morning Richard felt silly for doing it. Who was he to—

Neither of them—

His last fuzzy, irrational thought before he peeled himself away, mumbling a sleepy apology, was that Taron smelled not like lingering cigarette smoke, but like woodsmoke. Warm, from the campfire.

-

The B&B felt like a natural point to turn back from, refreshed enough from real showers and meals and beds to head home. They made good time, falling in step together, Taron pushing them along. The trail swung alongside the river, engorged from the rain, equally rushing and tripping over rocks to match their hard driving pace.

It was unseasonably hot and the sun was strong, long grasses and yellow grose bushes eagerly stretched out over the path to poke at their overheated skin. By the time they reached a bend in the river they had to stop, blinking sweat from their eyes and catching their breath, a wet patch at the front of Taron’s tee.

“We gotta keep going,” Taron said, hands on his thighs, panting. Richard saw Taron draw himself up, make himself stand. “Come on.”

Richard’s pack thudded in the scrubby grass as he dropped it, unclipped from his torso. 

“What’re you doing?” he heard Taron say as Richard peeled off his shirt, before Taron’s words trailed away. Tugged off his socks and shoes. Down to his shorts, as Richard waded into the river until it went up to his thighs. Scooped up the bracing water with his hands and slapped it over his shoulders, his chest.

“Come in,” he called behind him. Raked and scrubbed water through his hair, pressed his cold palms to his hot face, head tilted to the sun. “Come on.”

Anyone could walk around the bend, families with whining children or polite grey-haired hikers seeing their shed belongings, coming upon the two of them, crystalline cold in the water.

Silence. Then the rustle of clothing and gear, the sound of Taron wading in behind him, cooling his feet, hearing him sigh in relief. The river carrying on past them politely, intent on its destination.

-

“Thanks for coming along. You really didn’t have to.”

It was their last night of camping, set up in a clearing near the river, side by side in the tent, and Richard was glad for the dark so he could roll his eyes freely. Like Taron was ignorant of— Like he ever gave Richard a choice. 

“Have you liked it?” Taron asked him, sleepy. “You looked like you needed it.”

“Did I,” Richard said, bemused.

Taron had the good sense to sound abashed. “Well, I mean— no, I—”

“I think I did need it,” Richard allowed. “I should thank you. I never would have on my own.” It felt terribly honest to say it, but he owed him that much.

Taron gave a little murmur, and Richard asked, cautiously, “Has it helped… you?”

Taron was silent.

Richard prodded him. “Distract you, and all that. Take your mind off things.”

“No,” Taron said, sudden. “I don’t wanna be like that, though. I wanna— do something. Have something to focus on. And you—”

Richard rose up on an elbow when Taron failed to continue. Tried to search for his face, in the dark.

Taron’s voice was quiet. “You don’t distract me. You make me. Focus.” 

“Is that so?” Richard wondered. At the same time, in that exact heartbeat, he knew that it was true for himself too. That it had always been like that, ever since he’d known Taron, and even more so now. Days spent in the wild meant that the smallest things caught his attention, because they were all he had: the wind in the trees far above them, the precise sounds and shifts in Taron’s breath, so aware of his body lying close to his own. Attuned to him.

“Yeah,” Taron answered. His determination, cheer, any affect at all, had drained away. Sounded so soft and open in the darkness, the cosy tent cradling his voice.

“Yeah,” Richard echoed.

“And that’s been good. Especially when I— just. Just. Thanks,” Taron said, sounding tired.

“I've got you,” Richard said. 

Taron let out a low, shaky exhale.

“I've got you,” Richard said, and he lowered his gentle mouth to Taron's. 

Taron’s slow fingers came up to thread through his hair, shaking a little. Their lips met, soft, dry at first. The cool air prickled on Richard’s skin as he lifted some from his bedding, but the inside of Taron's mouth held promise; was warm, and wet. The scratch of his jaw, three days unshaven now.

“I've got you,” Richard said as he hauled Taron over him. Taron fought his way out of his own bedding and over and into Richard’s, but then their hips and legs and mouths aligned and it dropped in place, all of it, Richard’s hand wide around Taron's hips as he licked into his mouth, Taron rubbing and breathing against him, feeling everything. 

They kissed noisily, wet sounds trapped to be just theirs, Taron planting his hands next to Richard’s head and pressing his whole body against his. Richard was aching, fevered with it, but Taron was stiflingly patient, thorough, tongue thick in Richard’s mouth and moving his hips in a slow, delicious drag. Richard sighed as his hand searched between them and fumbled them both out of their waistbands, Taron letting out a throttled sound as Richard did so. They rutted together, caught on a wave of urgency, kisses bruising now, Richard whispering his name, _Taron, Taron_ , sucked at his soft earlobe as Taron shook, moaned, _you, Richard, yes, you_. Richard brought them both off, quiet and messy and shuddering as they came. It whited everything out, electric bright heat that melted and warmed, leaving Richard so conscious of how sticky-hot they were in its wake.

But Taron kept rutting against him lazily even after he had come, still seeking, letting out little involuntary noises, and Richard allowed him to, embraced him with his sweaty limbs and let go, let his focus float away into the darkness and felt the weight of Taron in his arms, stroked his back until he heard his breath picking up again, his cock stiffening against his belly, movements more insistent.

Richard reached down to feel Taron thrillingly hot and hard again. Hunger, desire, rushed up so thick and fast within him that his breath stopped.

“Want me to blow you?” Richard muttered.

“Crazy to turn that down,” Taron gasped, but he just kept moving, kissing him, thrusting into Richard’s generous hand. Richard traced his slick head over and over with his thumb on each upstroke, holding him close. Heard Taron’s breathing hitch, felt his chest bump against his own.

They didn't speak, didn’t perform for or encourage each other, just moved in the quiet, Richard giving him deep lush kisses and the steady rhythm of his hand, and Taron letting out breathy groans above him. Taron came again, weaker but with a satisfied keen on his lips that Richard captured with his own mouth. Gentled him down again, kneading his back.

The sleeping bag rustled and moved, peeled back, Richard exposed and feeling the chill of the night air for a brief second before Taron slid down, kissed at his sweat-slick hipbone and closed his warm lush mouth around him without preamble. “Oh fuck,” Richard groaned, let his knees spread and rocked gently into Taron's mouth. He felt impossibly cocooned, bundled in the gather of the bedding and held by the velvet heat wrapped around his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ , Taron,” and cupped his head with gentle hands, “so good.”

He still couldn’t see too well, and it made him feel all the wilder and hotter for it, pleasure unplaceable in the dark, only sensations: the trapped heat from the sleeping bag on his bare skin, the lick of cool air where it found its way in between, the luxurious hot clutch around his cock teasing him higher and higher. Taron hummed and moaned and writhed his tongue against him in an agonisingly good way, before pulling off wetly. “Is this alright?” he breathed, twisting his hand.

“Yes, fuck, I'm about to— don't, I'm—”

But Taron just sank back down and closed his eyes, redoubling his efforts with a deep moan, and Richard shook and came into Taron's tender mouth, his lapping tongue. 

Pulse roaring in his ears, he was distantly aware of Taron kissing over the head of his sticky cock, withdrawing to lay against him. “How did I ever,” Richard whispered, reeling, light-headed. “Jesus, Taron.”

“You feel good,” Taron said muzzily, slowly, shifting against him. “You make me feel so good.”

Richard’s hand, trembling, came to lay on Taron’s head. Stroked his thumb just there. “We've got jizz all in your sleeping bag.”

-

They hung it over a tree branch and dipped themselves back in the chilled river, glazed silver by the moon as it rolled to the sea. They yelped and shouted, naked, didn't linger.

“Sleep with me tonight?” Taron asked, unbearably earnest.

Richard felt wild and hungry in the wide expanse, mind empty and body thrumming, standing knee-deep in the water as he put his arms around Taron’s shoulders and kissed his open mouth, for the first time entirely unconcerned about how to get home, or how long it would take, or when he would find himself there.

“How could I say no,” Richard murmured.


End file.
